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whitneywcPoems
I have a picture of you tucked away in a book, which one, I cannot remember. I miss the softness of your smile, the way I would watch you meet the same old boring world with a simple delight. You have the cutest little button nose, you would say, as I giggled my way across the mangy avocado green sofa, an innocence I still strive to remember. A seventh grade dance photograph of me hung in the same spot, chair after chair, on the white texturized wall until the day you died, A faded silver toned cross with clustered ruby red beads hung on an old nylon string around your neck, also until the day you died. I stare at both and wonder if you can forgive me I won't go rummaging the bookshelf in search of the only print of you I call my own. I'll hang this cross somewhere in my line of vision, think about the times we met before, the ones in this form, I cannot remember. I'll move from this butterfly shaped cushion in the corner of my room out into the kitchen, pour steaming water of over freshly ground beans, whip eggs with a fork like you used to do, eat, go about my day. I'll wait patiently -- almost without thinking, for you to fall into my lap as I pull an old text from the dusty wooden shelf. Then, and only then, will I sit and dream of the day our physical hearts emulate the same space once more.
0
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 1:55 PM UTC
Grandmother
I have a picture of you tucked away in a book, which one, I cannot remember. I miss the softness of your smile, the way I would watch you meet the same old boring world with a simple delight. You have the cutest little button nose, you would say, as I giggled my way across the mangy avocado green sofa, an innocence I still strive to remember. A seventh grade dance photograph of me hung in the same spot, chair after chair, on the white texturized wall until the day you died, A faded silver toned cross with clustered ruby red beads hung on an old nylon string around your neck, also until the day you died. I stare at both and wonder if you can forgive me I won't go rummaging the bookshelf in search of the only print of you I call my own. I'll hang this cross somewhere in my line of vision, think about the times we met before, the ones in this form, I cannot remember. I'll move from this butterfly shaped cushion in the corner of my room out into the kitchen, pour steaming water of over freshly ground beans, whip eggs with a fork like you used to do, eat, go about my day. I'll wait patiently -- almost without thinking, for you to fall into my lap as I pull an old text from the dusty wooden shelf. Then, and only then, will I sit and dream of the day our physical hearts emulate the same space once more.
whitneywc
Written by
whitneywc
American
Oct 28, 2017
Oct 28, 2017 at 1:55 PM UTC
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